Chapter Eighteen
When Jeanne didn’t answer his call, Thomas began to worry right away. He left a message on her voice mail asking her to call him ASAP. He said that he would be over to check on her very soon if he didn’t receive a call. He planned to go visit his mother that morning at Arbour Psychiatric Hospital, but Mom might have to wait.
He thought about calling Morgan Robinson at the CIA, but figured he might be getting a little ahead of himself. After all, there could be a reasonable explanation for why Jeanne hadn’t answered. He waited for 15 minutes at his apartment, watching CNN, which covered every angle of the Watergate incident and the startling revelation that vice president Gillpatrick had been the one assassinated in Jerusalem rather than his twin brother, Senator Gillpatrick. The latest update on the senator’s condition suggested that he rested comfortably at Bethesda Military Hospital in Maryland after what doctors were calling a mild cardiac episode.
Nervously, Thomas glanced at his chronocom. Turning the TV off, he called Jeanne one last time before driving to her apartment. Again, he got her voice mail.
It didn’t make sense, and yet, it did. The man they had known as Horace could be the man responsible for the 12 deaths at the Watergate as well as those of Vice President Gillpatrick and the ambassador. Could Horace really kidnap Jeanne? Recalling his clumsy, almost laughable, yet relentless pursuit of the woman they both loved, Thomas figured the big Egyptian was a lot more capable of kidnapping Jeanne than any of the other atrocities attributed to him.
Pulling the safety-regulating smart card from the console, Thomas pressed down on his Toyota’s accelerator. Exceeding the electronically-regulated speed limit, he drew stares of disbelief, honks of protest, and a few passionate one-fingered road rage salutes, seldom seen vestiges of times gone by in these hi-tech, digitally governed days.
Besides the morning commuters, his illegal traffic disrupting tactics caught the attention of motorcycle patrolman Sergeant Terry Hanratty, a 12 year veteran of the city’s traffic safety department who hadn’t been involved in a good old fashioned chase for over three and a half years. In this age of electronic traffic flow regulation, he rarely wrote a citation for anything other than expired inspection stickers, license plates and parking violations. He could scarcely believe his eyes as he saw the two seated silver Toyota Sportivo whipping in and out of traffic. His eyebrows arched as he observed the little sports car running a light that changed to red before the vehicle cleared the intersection. This was too good to be true!
He wolfed down the last bite of his toasted coconut donut, tossed the remainder of his nutty cow latte into the sidewalk trash receptacle, kicked his stabilizer bar into its neutral position and gave the throttle a satisfying twist, exceeding the lawful noise pollution decibel level for the inner city. He added to the racket by activating his siren, popping the Harley’s clutch, and spinning its wheels, leaving a trail of light blue tire smoke and a robust black skid mark on the sidewalk.
With siren blaring, intermittently interrupted by the cautionary announcement, “Police activity in progress, please observe caution and yield to traffic control vehicles,” officer Hanratty leaned to the left and then to the right, darting in and out of the lanes filled to capacity this morning, as usual, by those that preferred personal transportation to that of the subway or the bus. Speaking into his helmetphone, he alerted headquarters that he was pursuing a traffic safety violator in a silver Toyota Sportivo, and would call for backup should the need arise. He hoped for an unobstructed view of the Toyota so that he could get a laser reading on the velocity and a good look at the license plates.
Ahead of him, Thomas cursed at the idiots that failed to move out of his way, forcing him to slam on the brakes and twist his steering wheel hard to the right. He ended up in the prohibited mass transit lane designated solely for city busses. The white, diamond shaped transit lane indicators painted on the blacktop blurred under the Toyota as he increased the pressure on the accelerator, seeing what appeared to be a two or three block stretch of road ahead with no impediments. That was when he first caught sight of Hanratty on his motorcycle.
Out of the corner of his left eye, in the side-view mirror, he saw them: twinkling red and blue lights, whipping in and out between cars like a downhill skier in a slalom event. “Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit!” Thomas banged his steering wheel in frustration, knowing he would probably be stopped before he reached Jeanne’s place less than four blocks away. Rather than slowing down, he increased his speed while keeping an eye on the trailing lights that continued to close the gap at an alarming rate.
“Jeanne, if you haven’t been kidnapped,” Thomas shouted, “you better have a damned good—” his sentence was cut short by a city bus that pulled out from a cross street into the intersection he neared at breakneck speed. Slamming on his brakes, he managed to avoid crashing into the back of the bus and squeezed the Toyota into an opening on the left that materialized between two cars filled with kids being taken to school by their mothers. The space only appeared because a young mother had been busy putting on her lipstick, hadn’t activated her vehicle-distance management system, and hadn’t paid attention when the car in front of her moved forward. As the silver two seater slid into the small opening, the surprise caused her to smear lipstick halfway across her cheek.
“Remind me to send Revlon a thank you note!” Thomas shouted. Although her rolled up windows prevented her from hearing his comment and kept him from hearing her livid protest, through the rear view mirror he spotted the exuberant, two handed, middle-fingered salute she offered. In front of him the three children in the back seat of a red Volvo turned around, bouncing excitedly and pointing at him through their rear window.
Fortune smiled upon him again as the bus, which had pulled out in front of him, stopped to pick up passengers. Having passed the bus, Thomas waved to the kids and to the furious, red-cheeked woman in the car behind him. Then he jerked the steering wheel hard to the right again, reentering the prohibited transit lane and laying rubber as officer Hanratty bore down on him.
~~~
Watching in amazement as the Toyota gained speed in the transit lane, Hanratty decided to ask for additional assistance. “Well, I guess you better send backup, Hank,” he called to the dispatcher back at HQ. “This idiot’s liable to kill someone if we don’t stop him soon!”
The dispatcher on duty this morning, Hank McMillan, had known Hanratty for five years. They had played poker and done a fair amount of 12 and 16 ounce curls together over that period.
McMillan shot back, “How do we know this speeder hasn’t killed someone already? Why do you think he’s running?”
“How the hell should I know?” Hanratty replied.
“Has he got his emergency lights on?” the dispatcher asked.
“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Holy Jeezus!” Hanratty shouted.
“What happened?”
“Some old lady with an autowalker just rolled off the curb on Albany Street and almost got run over by our Toyota! Oh man, that was too close!”
“Did you get a look at the plates yet?”
“No, not yet. I’m not close enough. I’m gaining on him, though.”
“Where do you think he’s headed?” The dispatcher waited a couple of seconds for an answer and then said, “Hanratty?” Still no reply, which bothered McMillan although he waited a few more seconds before saying, “Hey, I said where do you think he’s headed?” After another pregnant pause, the dispatcher spoke again. “Officer Terry Hanratty, answer me, dadgummit! Are you okay?”
“Henry, when you say something intelligent enough to warrant an answer, I’ll answer you! I’m trying to keep my mind on what’s going on out here. And by the way, would you please explain how I’m supposed to know where the hell he’s headed?”
“Okay. You have a point there. Just let me know if you get close enough, and want us to run the plates.”
“Will do. I’m still gaining. We’re coming up on Main.”
~~~
At Main Street, Thomas braked hard and turned right, fishtailing wildly, before turning left again on Fulkerson, the street where Jeanne’s apartment was located. He knew by now the patrolman could read his plates and imagined how upset the policeman would be. He zoomed into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in the first unoccupied space near the apartments that didn’t require a handicapped sticker.
Not far behind him the patrolman who had been in pursuit said, “Might as well cancel the backup, Henry, you aren’t gonna believe this,” Hanratty sounded disillusioned. “The son-of-a-bitch has got government exempt plates on that sports car. Jeezus, can you beat that?”
“Could be stolen,” came the hopeful answer. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Let me run those plates for you.”
Hanratty reported the letters and numbers, pulled into the parking lot and turned off his siren as Thomas got out. Shutting the Harley’s engine down and setting the kickstand, the officer shouted, “Hang on just a minute there, sir. That’s quite a chase you just led me on.” Lifting off his helmet, he reached inside and detached the removable earpiece and microphone. After opening the rear storage compartment on the big Harley he stashed the helmet, closed and locked the lid and fitted the portable earpiece and microphone apparatus over his left ear so that he could remain in constant contact with headquarters. “I see you have government plates,” a slightly sarcastic tone crept into the officer’s voice, “but I would appreciate it ever so much if you would be so kind as to let me take a look at your driver’s license, strictly for security purposes, you understand.”
“Sure officer, no problem.” As Thomas reached into his back pocket for his wallet, he said, “I’m Thomas Franklin, former Ambassador Franklin’s son. Sir, I have a possible emergency situation here. I believe there may have been a kidnapping.”
In his ear, officer Hanratty heard McMillan say, “We ran the plates. They’re registered to the automobile you described — a silver 2023 Toyota Sportivo. The owner is listed as a Thomas Jefferson Franklin, currently residing at 101 Memorial Drive.”
“Stand by, dispatch,” Hanratty said. He took the license and examined it, making sure the picture resembled the young man standing in front of him.
“Officer,” Thomas asked, “would you mind coming with me up to the apartment where Jeanne Mosley lives? She’s the one who may be missing.”
“What do you mean, may be missing, Mr. Franklin? Don’t you know? I mean that was some pretty dangerous —”
“Please sir,” Thomas interrupted, “Just come with me for a minute.”
Hanratty handed the license back and said, “Let’s take a look.” He flipped up the dark visor on his helmet and informed McMillan back at headquarters, “This is going to take a couple of minutes, Hank. The kid asked me to check something out with him.”
The old wrought iron stairs, although covered with wood, clanged noisily as they climbed.
“Mr. Franklin,” Hanratty asked, “what makes you think this Jeanne Mosley has been kidnapped? Had she received threats of some type? Have you been contacted with any ransom demands?”
Thomas shook his head and replied, “No, it’s not that kind of thing. This is more of an infatuation and unrequited love kind of thing.”
“Whaaaat?” Hanratty’s face contorted, reflecting his immediate supposition that this whole thing revolved around two lovesick guys fighting over the missing female. He hated getting involved in love triangles. He always ended up either dodging bullets, or the whole thing would turn out to be a complete waste of time with the missing pair being found at some restaurant, or maybe shacked up, humping away at the other guy’s place.
“It’s a long story, but if I’m right, we’re going to need to alert the airports.”
“Airports? How come?”
“Because the guy who may have kidnapped her would be taking her to Egypt.”
Officer Hanratty stopped on the stairs. Placing his hands on his hips he stared up at Thomas, who turned around when he heard the officer’s ringing footsteps on the iron stairs halt behind him. Looking up, from five steps below, Hanratty asked, “Egypt? Why Egypt?”
“‘Cause that’s where he lives, I think.” Thomas shrugged, turned back around and resumed climbing the last few steps.
Hanratty’s waning interest seemed to be revived as he asked, “So you know this guy?” He began to follow Thomas up the stairs, once again. “What’s his name?”
“Horace Khenemetankh,” Thomas replied as they reached the top of the stairs and stood on a wooden balcony that served two residences. “Jeanne’s apartment is number 214,” Thomas said, pointing. “Horace and I lived next door to each other over on Memorial Drive, last year. It was our senior year at MIT. He’s gone now, but I still live there.”
Hanratty walked past Thomas and rapped loudly on the door. “You lived next to this guy, huh? What makes you think he kidnapped Ms. Mosley?”
“He had asked her to return to Egypt with him...get this now, to be his queen. He told her he wanted her to be his desert rose.”
“She told you that?” Hanratty asked.
“Yeah, she told me that. She told me everything. She and I, we’re, uh, very close.”
“Uh-huh, I see. And how close is this Horace Khenema—whatever to Ms. Mosley?”
“Not as close as he wants to be.”
“You’re sure about that, are you?” After having waited a sufficient amount of time, Hanratty turned the doorknob. It opened. The patrolman went in first, stepping in halfway and looking around to be sure it was safe. Seeing no evidence of a struggle, and no reason for alarm, he motioned for Thomas to follow him. “Everything look normal to you?” Hanratty asked.
“Yeah, it all looks the way it should,” Thomas admitted. “Let’s check the back.” Hanratty went first down the hallway, past the bathroom that brought back memories for Thomas, and then to the bedroom. Everything in the bedroom seemed in order, except the covers on the bed were not neatly made, and a pair of gray cotton shorts and a matching tank top lay on the floor by the door.
“That’s odd,” Thomas commented.
“What is?”
“The bed’s not made. Jeanne always made the bed first thing in the morning. She’s a neatnick. And she wouldn’t have left her clothes on the floor, either.”
“How would you know that?” Hanratty asked.
“Like I said, we’re close.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t call the FBI because someone left their clothes on the floor and didn’t make their bed. Hey, is this her chronocom?” Hanratty held up a tasteful, not to mention inordinately expensive Piaget model, which had been laying on the nightstand on the far side of the bed.
“Yeah, that’s hers. She wouldn’t go anywhere without it. Something’s definitely not right.”
“Let’s see if she had any unusual voice mail,” Hanratty suggested. “Would you happen to know which phone company she used?”
“Yeah, Sprint. But I don’t know her password.”
Hanratty motioned for Thomas to give him a minute and spoke into the tiny microphone, “Hank, you still with me? I need a chronocom password.”
In his ear he heard McMillan reply, “Yeah Hanratty, Mr. Eavesdrop is still here. I been listenin’. You want me to look up Jeanne Mosley, with Sprint, right?”
“Yeah, Hank. You think that’s gonna take long?”
“What’s her address and phone number?”
“Stand by,” Hanratty glanced at Thomas. “What’s her phone number and what’s the complete physical address here?”
Thomas supplied the phone number and the full address on Fulkerson. Impatiently crossing his arms in front of him, he leaned against the bedroom door frame waiting for police headquarters to produce the password. A minute later, Thomas heard a muffled voice coming from the officer’s earpiece and saw Hanratty chuckle, but wasn’t able to make out what had been said. “What’s that?” he asked.
“You sure your girlfriend wasn’t a l
ittle closer to that Egyptian fellow than you thought?” Hanratty asked.
“Why?” Thomas wondered.
“Her password. Get a load of this. It was Cleopatra.” Hanratty had just a little more of a smirk on his face than Thomas would have liked.
“Well, so what? That doesn’t mean she wasn’t kidnapped. Her father was a high school history teacher. Maybe she always had some fantasy about being Cleopatra, or —”
“Yeah,” Hanratty interrupted, “and maybe she decided to runoff with this Egyptian stud to live out her fantasy. Stranger things have happened, Franklin. Now look, there isn’t any ransom note, it doesn’t look like there’s been a struggle, and unless there’s something you aren’t telling me, I’m going to have to leave. But as a favor to you, and because I respected your dad so much, I’ll go ahead and call this in as a missing person situation, even though it hasn’t been a full 24 hours since her disappearance.”
“But, you don’t understand,” Thomas insisted, “This guy, he’s a suspect in the death of my father and the vice president! He’s the one the Secret Service and the CIA are searching for. Go ahead if you don’t believe me and have your guy back at headquarters run a check on him. Horace Khenemetankh! K-H-E-N…” Thomas spelled the name so Hanratty could get McMillan to look it up. Less than 30 seconds later, after McMillan had confirmed what Thomas had claimed, Hanratty seemed pissed off, but at least now he paid close attention.
“Jeeezus, why didn’t you tell me this right from the start, son? Let’s listen to those voice-mail messages.” They did, and after having listened to all five, they knew nothing more than before they went to the trouble. To their disappointment, no ominous message existed. No ransom demand. Nothing but the regular hello, where are you, and call me messages from some of her girlfriends.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 16
